


One True Sentence

by verdant_fire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, Epiphanies, First Kiss, John Watson's Blog, John gets there eventually, Johnlock Roulette, London, M/M, POV John Watson, Pining, Pining John, Romance, Writer John, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdant_fire/pseuds/verdant_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John needed to write Sherlock in the way he saw him, but it wasn't until he got him down on paper that he realised what he'd actually written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One True Sentence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheffsfic (Sheffield)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheffield/gifts).



> Thanks to [GoldenUsagi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenUsagi/pseuds/GoldenUsagi) for the beta!

"So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone say." — Ernest Hemingway

***

John started writing when he was a boy, as a peacekeeping effort. Harry was wild, always crashing into the furniture and getting in trouble, and they spent most of their time fighting, but she would call a truce when John told her stories. At first, he read to her, but he soon found out that she preferred the stories John invented himself. He would tell her stories to get her to sleep: his baby sister, all knees, scrunched up against him in her bed, trying valiantly not to fall asleep and demanding that John change the endings more to her liking. He told her fantastic stories, full of adventures and tomboys and narrow escapes, and she ate them up, eyes wide and wondering. He even made her little books of her favourites, written down and sloppily illustrated in his eight-year-old hand. She took them to school and showed all her friends what her brother made for her. John felt invincible, like he could always protect Harry, give her everything their parents wouldn't.

Life proved him wrong, and the stories tapered off as Harry got older and angrier and less willing to believe, but John never forgot the feeling.

***

As he got older, he turned in his fair share of writing exercises at school, and he even let one of his teachers talk him into entering a secondary school fiction contest, but for the most part, John didn't think about writing much until he discovered how girls reacted to it. He was already well busy with science courses and medical ambitions and the captaincy of the rugby team, but he wrote his first serious girlfriend a rather long and heartfelt Valentine when he was sixteen, which led, in shockingly short order, to John and Julie in her parents' guest bedroom, moving frantically and clumsily against each other until she shuddered and gave a startled cry, and John came so hard he all but passed out on top of her. Still, John thought it was a pretty respectable showing for his first time, and even though he and Julie broke up later that year, John kept writing for his girlfriends. Part of it was self-interest, sure, but he also just liked it. He liked the way that caring about someone made him pay more attention. It made him want to keep a record of how he saw them, and of all the things that made them unique to anyone else.

He wrote about a few boys too during that time, and later on at uni, but they sure as hell never knew about it.

***

In medical school, he was too overwhelmed and exhausted to write much of anything, though there was one memorable incident with a fellow student and a series of Post-It notes on patient charts. They’d both been reprimanded, but it had been worth it.

When his father died, he tried to write, but the words wouldn't cooperate. They staged a revolt, unwilling to serve an ugly rabble of emotions that John couldn’t command himself. He eventually gave it up as a bad job and got drunk instead. It was a fitting tribute.

After Afghanistan, he couldn't write at all, therapist-assigned blog be damned. He'd seen too many futures bleed out, including his own. Most of the time, he just wanted to disappear like his life and career and purpose had.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes.

***

Sherlock makes him want to write things. He unfolds John's life and reads it like a map before vanishing with a wink, leaving John's existence to undergo a seismic shift. It reorients itself around the space where Sherlock had been, and everything else gets buried in the subsidence. Sherlock only gets more dangerously fascinating, not less, and within a day John has moved in with the man and shot a stranger for him with his very illegal Sig Sauer.

John hasn't been this happy in years.

John's blog becomes a chronicle of Sherlock almost immediately. He's so much more interesting than John, and he's so easy to write about. The words start flowing again, and John slowly gains a following of readers (and future clients) for his improbable-yet-true tales of Sherlock’s cases. The blog turns into a running account of their mad, wonderful existence, and Sherlock lodges a token protest, but when he thinks John isn't looking, he reads the posts and lets his mouth twitch up at one corner.

John has no illusions of grandeur about his writing, and he's no prose stylist, but he flatters himself that when he's really on, he at least communicates some of what it was like to be there. He needs people to know how it feels to watch Sherlock's mind go off like a rocket, or to see him running through the gentrified wilds of Shoreditch, lovely and incongruous, silhouetted against the street art and far more beautiful than any of it, winded but still detouring on the way home to show John the sites of Jack the Ripper's murders. It's almost blinding to look at him when he's like this, as joyful and delighted with himself as a little boy. 

Sherlock is so alive that he radiates energy like the heat shimmer off asphalt. Every move he makes seems effortless, as if his mind directly commands his body without any clumsy interpreters of muscle or bone. He has the physical control and grace of a dancer, all fluidity and fine lines, and John could watch him for days. He's wiry and deceptively strong, but he's not as tall as you'd think once he's out of that suit and coat. He’s haughty and ruthless and childish, but also more human than he’ll ever admit. He's brilliant and infuriating and more than a bit mad, and John can't imagine his life without him anymore.

That's when he starts the book.

Well, technically it's a journal, consisting of things John doesn't want to put on the blog, for reasons he doesn't care to examine too closely just yet. Things like the way Sherlock's clever fingers move when they're picking a lock, John keeping lookout with only half his attention, or the way veins stand out in Sherlock's sinewy forearms when he plays Sarasate at three in the morning in his pyjamas. Or the way his throat goes on for miles, carved and cool as a Corinthian column, or how summer sunlight gets trapped in his hair like an insect in amber. The way his voice curls like a contented cat around the syllables of John's name, or how Sherlock can smile at him using only his eyes, mischievous and knowing. 

The journal’s not explicit, exactly, and perhaps not instantly damning — Sherlock is usually too lazy to go through John's things without a reason, though it's been known to happen — but it's more, and more poetic, than he usually writes about his flatmate/friend, and taken as a whole, it's certainly enough to make the world's only consulting detective suspicious. So John keeps it in his wardrobe, and keeps writing. He notices everything about Sherlock now; he can't do anything else. His observations flow out of his fingertips and onto the page, his heart bleeding ink until his hands are drenched in Sherlock. John hoards moments and descriptions and mental pictures like a magpie collecting treasures, and writes his tribute to Sherlock one sentence at a time.

***

London breeds writers. Perhaps it's something in the stones, in the fact of living somewhere that's been inhabited for two millennia, with so many stories buried below their feet like bones, an ossified library that would put Alexandria to shame. Perhaps they leach out into the groundwater, infiltrate the rain, dissolve in the Thames. Maybe they're all elements in a larger story, written one person at a time. Sherlock would have his own paragraph, at least, and John would be the exclamation mark at the end of it. Sometimes, during their most delirious late nights, he thinks that Sherlock _is_ London, its wild-eyed avatar made flesh, with his Serpentine hair and his Shard-bright eyes and his heart as guarded as the Tower. Sherlock loves London the way that men of old loved the gods of spring, and he brings her murderers in tribute, trussed-up and piled like kindling on the altar of his crowing cleverness.

He likes their story, his and Sherlock's. He'd be happy to live in it for the rest of his life. But after he starts catching himself wondering how best to describe the tilt of Sherlock's mouth when he's amused, or the way that firelight and fondness can turn his eyes warm and contented when he looks at John, John has to admit, if only to himself, that he wouldn't terribly mind if Sherlock wanted more romance in the narrative. He thinks it's already a love story.

***

He wants to use words the way Sherlock uses data. Writing has never seemed quite as important as it does now; the urge to get it right has never been this strong. He wants to feel the caught-killer thrill of a beautiful sentence and the scalpel-sharp satisfaction of an apt description. He wants to know that he's captured Sherlock as well as English ever can, that he's made him come alive for others, made him just that little bit less mortal. 

It's as close to godhood as he ever feels when he's not with Sherlock. It's a purpose, a life, something (someone) to live for. It's vital, in every sense of the word. John's not a particularly religious man, but at its best, writing feels transcendent. It makes him part of something bigger, timeless, as though he can identify with God when He made something from nothing and called it good. Most of the time, the vast majority in fact, writing is slow and frustrating and discouraging, just throwing words at a goal he falls far short of, but when it's really good, there's nothing like it. He may not be able to write like his favourite authors, the ones who can turn a sentence into a symphony, but he can write like himself, and that's enough to be going on with. 

John wants to do Sherlock justice, to record everything that makes him who he is, the good, the bad, and the extraordinary, so that other people can see Sherlock the way John does: not as a freak or a sociopath, but as someone fantastic. He's difficult and an arse and he makes even John look emotionally mature, and John loves him like he's never loved anyone else.

John loves Sherlock. More to the point, John's _in_ love with Sherlock.

Oh, shit.

***

Looking at Sherlock is a new, enlightened experience now that John knows; it's like facing your doom and welcoming it with open arms. It makes more sense this way, really. It explains why John would kill (again) and die for this man, why watching him walk across a room is better than poetry, why Sherlock rearranged John’s life into the two epochs of Before and After. Every furtive teenage glance at a boy was just preparation for this, for him. It's better this way, cleaner, to stop pretending and living in denial, even if it never gets him anywhere. At least he doesn't have to be torn in two anymore.

***

John needed to write Sherlock in the way he saw him, but it wasn't until he got him down on paper that he realised what he'd actually written. It's as good as a love letter, and nearly as suggestive. It takes him the better part of two weeks to come to terms with it. The entire time, he feels as if it must be written on his forehead, the reason why he's acting so oddly, why he avoids close contact and starts guiltily every time he looks at Sherlock for too long. He sees Sherlock watching him more closely, but he mercifully doesn't say anything about it. Those chatoyant eyes disassemble him, but Sherlock's face doesn't tell any secrets.

John's always been good at hiding in plain sight. It's what he's started doing on his blog, now that he's aware of how much he's in danger of giving away, how much he's _already_ given, just by the way he represents Sherlock to the world.

He's stopped automatically correcting people who assume they're a couple. He wonders if Sherlock notices. Scratch that; he wonders what Sherlock thinks about it.

He keeps writing. He writes more in the book than he does on the blog these days. Now that he recognises what he's feeling, he sees it in nearly everything he writes, to the point where he's afraid to post anything for fear it'll turn into a declaration of love without his knowledge. John's well aware that something's got to give, and soon. The only question is what to do about it. 

***

He starts writing _for_ Sherlock, on purpose, and leaves his journal sticking out just slightly from under his bed, like an invitation. Just to see what happens. His impulse control is only good compared to Sherlock's, and that's not saying much.

He's even more dedicated to his writing now, now that he knows (or is reasonably sure) that Sherlock will read what he writes in the journal. He agonises over every word, wants every clause to be as striking and affecting as he can make it. He's not at all sure he succeeds, but at least Sherlock will see the effort. He might even see what it means. John's finally starting to.

***

John goes on like this for a week, until a rainy Thursday arrives, almost entirely unremarkable. He spends most of his locum hours on dreary NHS paperwork, forgets his umbrella, and endures his last two Tube stops crammed in at rush hour with what seems like half of London.

When he gets home from work and goes upstairs to drop off his bag, Sherlock is sitting on his bed, one step ahead of him like always.

"You found it, then." John feels oddly calm. He's been waiting for this, even if he wasn't entirely willing to admit it. Sherlock's lack of personal boundaries can be useful at times.

"Yes." Sherlock's face and posture are careful, giving nothing away. He's holding John's journal in his lap, his hands folded primly on top of it. But there's a second book, sitting on the end of the bed, a few feet away from Sherlock. It's one of Sherlock's lab notebooks, black-bound and deceptively innocuous. Sherlock's eyes flick to it and back to John, and Sherlock inclines his head at it, waiting for John to pick it up.

John doesn't, not just yet. "And what did you think of it?"

Sherlock's brow scrunches up in frustration, little folds forming above the bridge of his nose. John wants to smooth them out with his thumb. "Just look at the notebook, John."

John palms the notebook and picks it up, opening it to the first page. Sherlock's scrawled handwriting fills every line, barely legible, but John can make most of it out. Each page is dated, starting from February 2010. It's Sherlock's observations of him. They get more detailed, and personal, as the dates progress. John’s eyes widen a bit at the lengthy monograph about why tea made by him is superior to tea made by anyone else, and when he gets to the section that records his known emotional responses to different violin pieces, John realises that, coming from Sherlock, this is an astoundingly obvious admission of sentiment. 

He feels weightless, as if he's floating in a vast ocean, near the shore, waiting to be called home. Sherlock is trying to speak his language, or as close to it as he knows how. It’s John’s job to make sure that nothing gets lost in translation. "Sherlock, what are you trying to say?" His voice is rough, uncontrolled, but that's all right. He's not good at this stuff.

Sherlock looks anywhere but at him. He starts talking, quickly, tripping over his own words and clutching at the journal with his fine-boned hands. "I — am saying that I find myself fascinated with you as well, in all ways. I thought perhaps, since you've already written a book about me, and I've written one of sorts about you, that possibly — you might like to collaborate on the next one. Since collaboration has proven productive so far, for the Work and — other things." He draws in a deep breath, and now he does look up at John, finally. His eyes are uncharacteristically earnest, and he looks a bit unsure and heartbreakingly young. "I would like to continue observing you indefinitely, John. For as long as you'll permit it. I think I may never have enough data where you're concerned."

John sits down heavily on the bed at that, a careful distance from Sherlock. When he puts his hands down on the duvet, he can feel the warmth from Sherlock's body where it's bled into the sheets. He shivers.

"Oh," John says softly. He shifts closer to Sherlock, within arm's reach now. "You can observe me for as long as you like, Sherlock. I can't imagine ever wanting you to stop. Can I . . . observe you as well?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmurs, eyes wide. "That would be — good, John."

John reaches out then, and touches Sherlock's face, his jaw, very gently, and slowly, slow enough to give Sherlock plenty of time to pull away if John's got this wrong. Sherlock doesn't pull away. He turns his face into John's palm, eyes fluttering shut, and John's fingertips start caressing lightly, just under Sherlock's ear.

"Is this all right?"

"Yes," Sherlock rumbles, and suddenly bristles with impatience. "Enough talking," he growls, and tips them both down onto the bed, side by side. John laughs; he can't help it. He feels like he could do anything right now: take on an army, swim an ocean, fly. He's invincible, indomitable, because he's so in love with this impossible, inevitable man.

"Did you want to get started on that collaboration now?" he teases, grinning, and Sherlock's eyes and mouth go soft.

"Now and always, John."

John's eyes abruptly prickle with heat, and he clears his throat, so incredibly fond of his mad, brilliant friend that he feels incandescent with it, an adoring sunrise in his chest glowing redly through the slats of his ribs. He lets his palm curl around the dip of Sherlock's waist, gathering him in closer. "You great bloody romantic."

"I blame your writing. It's a bad influence." Sherlock grins at him, boyish and delighted, and threads his long fingers into John's hair, pulling him into a kiss. It's headlong and vulnerable and so very promising, solemn as a wedding vow, and John smiles against his mouth.

This is going to be the best story John's ever told.


End file.
